


Curry Night, Clothes Optional

by Vae



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday night is always curry night. It doesn't always involve a naked stranger walking into their kitchen and demanding a share of Wat's cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curry Night, Clothes Optional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/gifts).



"That," an unknown voice declares - and it's definitely a declaration, nothing as mundane as simply 'saying' for this voice, "smells absolutely delectable. I must have some, immediately."

It's Thursday. Curry night's always a Thursday. It's not one of the Thursdays that they can afford to get Indian takeaway, and it's Wat's turn to cook. As far as Wat's concerned, his curry's superior to anything that the Bengal Palace offers, anyway.

Will blinks his confusion, and exchanges looks with Kate, who shrugs. Roland's already taken up a defensive position by the cooker, placing himself firmly between the kitchen door and the curry simmering gently on the hob. (It's not madras or a korma or anything that could actually have a name like that, Wat's cooking doesn't work that way. It's meat and curry spices and whatever else is left in the fridge near the end of the month. It's _curry_.)

Roland squares up as the squeak of the hinges announce the door being pushed further open. "This is _our_ dinner," he says firmly. "You get your own curry."

"But this one is clearly my destiny." The unknown voice turns out to be accompanied by an unknown body - good, because Wat had been wondering for a moment if their shared kitchen was being haunted by a ghost with particularly good taste in curries, which would have made it awkward to cook in there ever again. The man looks slightly older than they do, older even that most of the third years, probably a mature student, which means that Wat has to dislike him on principle. Mature students are all, without exception, condescending bastards.

"This one's ours," Wat says, finding his tongue and his feet at the same time. He keeps his eyes resolutely on the stranger's face, because looking at anything else would be a bit weird, really.

The stranger turns a winning smile in his direction, blue eyes bright. "Ah, but surely you could be persuaded to share with a poor stranger in need? Perhaps, indeed, it turns out that this whole delightful situation is my destiny."

Behind Wat, Kate makes a choked noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter. To be fair, if Wat had allowed himself to look at Will's expression, he'd probably be laughing too, because Will has problems adjusting to the unexpected, and a strange man arriving in their kitchen to demand curry is pretty unexpected.

Will makes a strangled sound, and the legs of his chair scrape against linoleum, that particular sound that only happens when someone stands up too fast and the flimsy plastic chairs that the university's provided come close to falling over backwards. "I think, stranger," Will says carefully, "that you might be a bit more in need of some clothes?"

Because, yeah. The man isn't only a stranger and probably a mature student, he's also completely stark bollock naked.

"Ah," the man says, smile faltering very slightly. "I ran into a little bad luck. Or, perhaps, bad critics."

"Perhaps," Wat echoes. He's not looking at the nakedness. He's not. He's not looking at all that pale skin or the graceful lines of the stranger's legs or the lean planes of his torso or anything else that might be around that region. "What do you get from good critics, then?"

"Drunk," the man says promptly, grinning. "Or laid. Are you a good critic? Should I recite poetry to pay for my supper?"

"Poetry?" Wat says incredulously. Behind him, Kate's openly laughing her head off, and Wat daren't even look at Roland. "No. _No_."

"A sonnet," the man says, slow and thoughtful. "To the elegant blend of flavours. Or scents. Or both."

That, finally, is something that makes enough sense for Wat to understand. He scowls. "Scents? Are you saying I smell?"

"Am I?" The man's eyebrows rise, and then his grin widens to something wicked and far, far too tempting. "Perhaps, if you choose to take it that way. I would, of course, need to come much closer to be certain of which smells are the cooking and which are you..."

"Fuck, the cooking," Roland says, and there's a scuffle behind him which Wat really hopes is the sound of the rice being rescued before it turns into actual glue.

The stranger takes a step forwards. 

Wat takes one back, then silently, furiously curses himself and steps forward again, back to where he was. Back to far too close to the far too naked man who also has the effrontery to be far too tall. Wat can't look at his face any more without tilting his head back, so he glares stubbornly at the man's narrow, freckled chest instead, refusing to acknowledge the height.

"Perhaps you would benefit from a shower," the man says, sounding amused.

Roland's hands close tightly around Wat's arms before he can punch the stranger in the stomach. "There, didn't I tell you?"

"We all told him," Kate puts in.

Wat hates them all. Wat needs better friends. Wat shouldn't be cooking food for _any_ of them.

Towelling brushes against his arms and Wat looks up before he can stop himself, seeing Will wrapping a dressing gown around the stranger's shoulders. The man smiles, sudden and dazzling, then turns the smile onto Will. "Thank you, friend."

"A friend," Will says, "has a name. I'm Will, that's Kate, the fat one's Roland and the chef's Wat."

"Wat." The stranger smiles, folding Will's dressing gown around him. It doesn't come close to reaching his knees. "An excellent name for poetry."

Roland snorts. "Limericks, maybe."

Wat turns his glare on Roland. "Do you want this food or not?"

Grinning, Roland mimes zipping his lips closed. Wat nods, mollified. 

"And your name?" Will says, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms in the way that he thinks looks insouciant (whatever that means, Wat refuses to read the actual paper dictionary that Roland gave him for Christmas last year, but it's a word that Will likes to use, mostly when he's trying to figure out new ways to get the attention of that second year in computer science) but mostly makes him look like he's cold.

"Geoff," the stranger says, tying Will's dressing gown around his waist and still watching Wat. "Does my name buy me some of that food?"

"Do you usually buy food with your name?" Wat says, allowing himself one single step back, since it's towards the food.

"When I have nothing else," Geoff says, without any apparent sign of shame. "When my poetry is spurned."

Kate giggles. "Spurned. You're English Lit, aren't you?"

"For my sins," Geoff agrees, and bows in her direction. "MA, if I ever finish this blasted dissertation."

At least he's not a bloody PhD student, then. "Arts," Wat mutters, and gets out a fifth plate.

It could be worse.


End file.
